Glorfindel and the Mearas
by Esteliel01
Summary: This story takes place early in the Third Age and tells how the magnificent Eirien Malloth came to be Glorfindel's horse. Explores some of the history of Imladris and Arnor after the Fall of Sauron. Is a stand alone story.


**Glorfindel and the Mearas**

**chapter 1**

_This is a stand-alone story. But for those of you who enjoyed my story "A Prank on Glorfindel", this is the tale of how the magnificent Eirien Malloth came to be Glorfindel's horse._

_If you wonder what happened to Asfaloth: Asfaloth is Glorfindel's horse at the end of the Third Age, when Frodo comes to Rivendell. For those of my stories that take place when Elladan and Elrohir are little – __**early**__ in the Third Age – I wanted to have a horse which would not be 'Asfaloth the Second', but which would nonetheless be worthy of the Balrog Slayer from Gondolin._

_This story takes place early in the Third Age, 25 years before the birth of Elladan and Elrohir._

O-o-O-o-O

Third Age 105.

Evening came early on this side of the Misty Mountains. The sun had long ago stopped warming the skin of the golden-haired Elf, as it disappeared behind the snow-capped peaks of the Hithaeglir to sink into the Western Seas far away on the other side of Eriador.

Glorfindel relaxed in his saddle as he prepared to ride on until dark. Tomorrow he would cross the River Rhimdath. Although he suspected no enemy activity this far south of the Orc Capital in Mount Gundabad, it would never hurt to take some extra care. But this evening his senses detected no danger, regardless how far he allowed them to stretch East, North, South and West.

During the day eagles had flown high overhead, watching him, though never coming close. They had followed him ever since he had passed the latitude of their eyries, some fourty miles north of the Old Ford of Anduin.

Three days earlier he had enjoyed the spectacle of the sun rising over the Greenwood as he had crested the High Pass above Rivendell. On the following evening he had camped in the foothills of the Misty Mountains, and by morning he had left the Old Road and turned northwards.

Now he was about to cross into more dangerous lands. With the Hithaeglir on his left and the Anduin to his right, he was steadily approaching the Ered Mithrin, the Grey Mountains, a mountain range that bordered on the Northern Waste. If all went well, three more days would bring him to the lands between the rivers Langwell and Greylin, the sources of the Great River Anduin.

He wondered what he would find there.

More than a century had passed since Isildur had cut the Ring from Sauron's hand. The Dark Lord and his evil servants, the Nazgûl, had vanished altogether and darkness had fled from Middle Earth.

Peace and joy were awakening once more into the hearts of Elves and Men as all the living creatures that breathed the air of Arda rejoiced in the renewed safety of their lands.

Elrond had returned to Imladris, devastated by the loss of his dear friend and King, Gil-galad, and worn by the seven years of hardship on the plains of Gorgoroth. He had withdrawn into the silent inner chambers of his house, blind to all the joy and relief filling the Valley as families were reunited, blind to the needs of his advisors, who dealt with the numerous representatives of Gondor and Arnor flooding into the Valley to ask for the counsel of the Elves. Blind, even to the beautiful elleth who silently held her vigil outside his rooms, bringing him meals that he left untouched for days.

It had been Círdan and Glorfindel who had eventually forced Elrond from his stupor and made him face his tasks, but it had been Celebrían who had eventually found a way to heal the ellon's heart. Glorfindel deeply respected the endless patience of the gentle daughter of Celeborn, who had spent weeks, months and even years tending to the broken heart of her beloved Elrond.

Safe in the arms of his dear Celebrían, Elrond had returned to his duties as Lord of Imladris. When Isildur had been slain not three years after his victory on Sauron, Isildur's only remaining son and heir Valandil had to be made ready for the throne of Arnor. In seven intensive years Elrond had prepared the gangly youth for the enormous task that now lay upon his shoulders.

During many years and decades after the young Adan had ascended the throne, Elrond had dispatched his Elven advisors to the city of Annúminas, and messengers ongoingly rode back and forth on the Great East Road and along the river Baranduin, carrying missives and long letters from Valandil to Elrond, and vice versa.

When Valandil's wife had born him a healthy son, Valandil had requested that the child be fostered in Rivendell. So at fourteen years of age, a shy but playful Eldacar had ridden into the Hidden Valley by the side of his sire, the King.

Peace prevailed in all the lands, north and south, east and west – or so it seemed. But Elrond had not yet forgotten about the Orc Lair of Mount Gundabad, the capital of Goblin breeding and activity.

Far in the north, where the Grey Mountains intersected the Misty Mountains, the enormous, great mountain Gundabad pompously filled both land and sky: an enormous snow-capped monster, in whose belly – once in a far past – Durin, Father and first of all Dwarves, had been awoken by Aule himself. Long past were those days of renown: now the evil creatures of Morgoth infested the deep, dark places of the ancient mountain.

After Sauron's Fall, his black-blooded followers had either been killed or had fled in the aftermath of the Big Defeat. But with the passing of a century, some of the revolting creatures might be coming out of hiding.

Elrond wanted to be sure to keep an eye on them before they could again regroup in great numbers. By the time rumours would arise of sporadic orc-attacks on populated areas, it could already be too late, the Lord of Imladris had reasoned. It would be better to know what they were up to as long as the disgusting creatures were still hiding and abiding in their caves.

Over the last one hundred years, Glorfindel had undertaken a journey north to the lands on the knees of Mount Gundabad about every five to seven years. And indeed, over the course of the last two and a half decades, orc-activity had gradually increased. It would be wise to monitor the development.

O-o-O-o-O

_Two weeks later, in the land between the rivers Langwell and Greylin_

Slipping down from his high perch in the top of a tree, Glorfindel quietly made his way back to his camp as the first rays of Anor stained the snow on the top of Mount Gundabad with a pinkish hue.

The orcs had once again been out in small companies during the night, foraging for the most part, satisfying their hunger and their beastly lust for cruelty. Glorfindel winced as he remembered the frightened screams of the doe that three orcs had been torturing to death when he had come upon them. His first arrow had released the poor deer from her agony. The next ones had hit the orcs neatly between the eyes as they had dumbly looked up to see where the unfamiliar arrow had come from.

It had not been his intent to kill any orcs. He had long spoken with Elrond on the matter, and both Elf Lords had agreed that no good could be gained from alerting the orcs to the presence of an Elf, lest they suspect that their moves were being watched.

Glorfindel had not, however, been able to watch the gentle-eyed animal suffer so needlessly. He had removed his arrows from the carcasses and had maimed the dead orcs sufficiently with their own weapons to make it seem as though they had fought amongst themselves over the meat. Then he had withdrawn into the trees, observing the movements of the orcs for the remainder of the night.

Stopping at the banks of Greylin, Glorfindel quickly scanned the lands around him before he bent to wash his hands and face in the icy water.

There were no orc dens or caves in this particular area: he had thoroughly scouted the surroundings before he had set up his little camp in a small patch of trees, a little further up-river. But his exploits were telling him that the orcs _were_ moving ever further east of Mount Gundabad. He had even seen a small company of orcs to the _east_ of the river Greylin last week, heading towards the eaves of Greenwood.

Their numbers had been too few to pose a serious threat. 'Probably a mere bunch of rebels, eager to find some profit of their own,' he mused, as he dipped his hands in the clear water and drank thirstily. In the days of Sauron's rule the movements of the orcs had been planned and clever – and dangerous. With their master gone, the witless creatures lacked the insight to plan anything other than small, disorganized skirmishes, oft times killing their brethren on impuls, driven as they were by greed and a deeply rooted selfishness.

The majority of the orcs lived deep in the heart of Mount Gundabad, never venturing out in the fresh night air, fearing not only the sun, but even the jewels of Elbereth that twinkled abundantly in the skies. However, the movements of the few that did travel under the night sky were a good indication for the situation underground. And these movements were increasing with each of his visits to the Northlands…

O-o-O-o-O

As Anor climbed steadily up into the clear blue of day, the wide grassy plains of the lands between Greylin and Langwell seemed to shine with white and golden light. For as far as the eye could see, the meadows had been sprinkled with more daisies than even an Elf would be able to count in the span of his life.

Glorfindel rested beneath the trees where he had made his camp these past three days, his eyes slightly glazed over as he walked the paths of waking dreams, restoring his strength. Without a companion to keep watch, he only allowed himself brief spans of time for sleep. Although he had dipped below the surface of consciousness, his senses were still focused outward, and he would wake upon the slightest indication of a possible threat.

But the sparkling, silver-white creature now approaching the copse of trees where the lone child of Ilúvatar rested, was of purest intent. She had no other aim than to satisfy her playful curiosity. She was a young mare of the Mearas, a breed of wild horses of which legends said that their ancestors had been brought to Arda by Oromë himself. Born in the 'Land Between The Two Rivers' not five years earlier, she had never before seen a two-legged creature as the one that was lying beside the silver birch tree on the grass. She whickered softly in greeting to the dark-haired stallion that had accompanied the slender being since he had first crossed the river Langwell into her lands.

There, now the golden-haired wanderer stirred. She snorted and ventured a little closer, her ears turning forward to this miracle of creation.

Glorfindel blinked as his eyes came back into focus. Feeling safe and serene as though he were still an infant in his mother's arms, he inwardly knew that there was not the slightest of threats in his immediate surroundings. Something had woken him, though…

The soft, warm breath that touched the top of his head made him jump to his feet! The young mare, for it had been she who had carefully snuffled the golden braids, shied backwards and immediately left the copse of trees, returning to the grassy plain with an indignant flick of her tail. However, not far from the trees she halted and turned around, her interest still piqued by this two-footed newling.

Glorfindel gazed at the white-coated mount that had been so near him only moments before.

She looked _ab-so-lute-ly_ stunning! She was a great, strong horse of magnificent build, the likes of which even Glorfindel of Gondolin had never seen before in his long life. Her coat was glistening in the bright light of day, her mane flowing softly in the breeze. The rays of Anor gave the mane a golden hue, like a halo of golden light, surrounding a pair of curious, large black eyes in a noble white face.

Standing against the backdrop of the snow-capped Misty Mountains, she was a vision of purest, unmarred beauty to the eyes and heart of the Elf.

"Hello Beautiful," he crooned softly, touching his brow, lips and heart in the elven blessing.

The ears of the mare twitched and she tossed her head, gazing back at the golden-haired warrior.

"You look like a golden daisy to me, little Eirien of the Mearas," Glorfindel whispered, still amazed.

She had to be of the legendary Mearas, he thought. There was no way that a horse of this magnificence could walk the fields of Arda and not be of the legendary race. He dipped his head in respect, acknowledging the great honour bestowed upon him for this chance to meet her.

Sitting down on the edge of the field, Glorfindel crossed his legs and softly sang a song of praise and wonder while the mare looked on. She was amazed by the melodious sound of his voice. He seemed to be a gentle being. She relaxed her neck and lowered her head, slowly walking back towards the copse of silver-leafed trees.

"Your coat glistens like sunlight on snow in the morning," Glorfindel sang softly, his breath almost catching in his throat as the mare came ever closer.

Silent tears fell from the Balrog Slayer's eyes as she gently nuzzled first his feet, then his outstretched hand and finally his hair and his face. He softly breathed into her nostrils in greeting, allowing her to take in his scent.

"You are amazing, my Daisy," he wept silently. "I promise that I will never forget you."

O-o-O-o-O

Hours passed in companionable peace. Glorfindel sang his songs of praise and gratitude, and Daisy of the Mearas listened. She could sense the purity of heart in this child of the Firstborn.

"You are so beautiful," Glorfindel whispered fondly. He chuckled softly to himself when the ears of the mare turned with interest.

"You are a princess of the Land of the Valar, dressed in finest raiment by the hands of Lady Elbereth herself," he voiced his admiration, smiling at her reaction. The young mare had ventured out onto the field to graze, staying close enough to listen to him, but still going about her own business. Upon hearing his words, though, she abandoned her meal and returned to where he was sitting. It seemed as though this beautiful lady was particularly fond of praise, he observed.

Eirien gazed at the golden-haired biped. When he did not immediately respond with more words of flattering, she walked closer and gently nudged his shoulder.

Blue eyes shining with amusement and awe, the Elf Lord of Gondolin carefully raised his hand to caress the gleaming white coat.

"You want more praise, my Lady?" he chuckled. "Will you allow me to caress you then?"

Gently resting her muzzle on the Balrog Slayer's head, the mare of the Mearas consented. She allowed him to brush his fingers along her neck, nose and chin while the melodious bariton voice sang words of admiration into her ears.

It was well-nigh sunset when the mare eventually took her leave. But she did not go far. On the morrow she would return to this wonderful new companion!

O-o-O-o-O

From that day on the mare followed the Elf around as he wandered through the land of daisies. He camped, then here, then there, venturing off on his own in the night. She silently stood watch as he slept in the morning – and after he woke, she silently listened to his songs while his fingers worked softly through her mane.

When he rode his dark-haired stallion across the plains, she lazily trotted behind them, allowing them a head-start and watching as his hair blew behind him in the wind. She would rear and frolic, kicking her legs in the air, forward, backwards and sideways, playfully running around until he had almost reached the horizon. Then she finally set off at great speed, and like an arrow from a bow she shot past the Elf and his galloping stallion – a flash of silver flying across the grass, her pace light and smooth even at the speed of the wind, leaving them far behind.

Glorfindel was fascinated by his magnificent, sweet-natured companion. Not in his wildest dreams had he dared to envision her staying beyond their initial encounter, and yet here she was, almost courting him! Nigh on two weeks had passed into their friendship, when he finally dared to pose the one question which had been on his mind ever since he had first seen her graceful, effortless gait.

As his fingers softly brushed the silver-white coat, he gently murmured: "My sweetest, beautiful Eirien of the Land of Golden Flowers…would you do me the greatest honour I could possibly imagine?"

Eirien's ears rotated to the Elf standing beside her flank. She turned her head backwards and her deep, black eyes calmly questioned him.

Glorfindel walked to the front of the stately mare and kissed the soft, velvet nose before dipping his head in respect. He bowed to her and pressed his cheek against the soft coat of the mare.

"Would you carry me, Eirien?" he asked.

A jerk of the great, white head almost knocked the Elf out of balance. With a snort and an angry flick of her tail the mare trotted away, not sparing the Elf a single glance until she had reached the top of the hill. There she turned, neighing indignantly.

The Mearas were a race of wild horses. They never carried anyone – for the Valar had meant for them to be free. As much as she loved the gentle Elf, she was certainly not willing to lower herself to the level of an ordinary warhorse.

She would be free!

With a last glance at her beloved companion of these last two weeks, Eirien of the Daisy Fields turned and set off at a run. It was time to return to her herd.

Aghast, wiping the tears of regret off his face as the magnificent horse disappeared behind the hill, Glorfindel turned back to his dark-haired stallion, fastening the girth.

"We must be off, little one," he crooned. "It is time for us to return south, to Rivendell. Shall you come with me?"

The stallion whickered softly as the warrior lept back into the saddle.

During the entire journey back to the Ford of Langwell, Glorfindel's sharp elvish eyes kept scanning the sunny plains for a glimpse of silver far off in the distance. He tarried long before he crossed the river, but eventually he rode on into the lands west of Anduin, frequently glancing over his shoulder until the silver ribbon of Langwell disappeared in the haze of the horizon.

Even when he crossed the river Rhimdath he turned around – hoping, wishing, _praying_ that the Lady of the Daisies had changed her mind…that she had followed him. He longed to see her galopping towards him, a white spot frolicking on the horizon, swiftly coming closer as she flew across the plains.

But it was not to be.

With tears of longing in his eyes and in his heart, the Balrog Slayer of Gondolin reached the road to the Old Ford and turned his dark-haired stallion towards the Misty Mountains, beginning the day-long ascent to the High Pass above the Hidden Dale.

Elrond would be waiting for news. Celeborn would be waiting for news. With the quiet Peredhel of Sirion and his silver-haired elleth so close to forming a bond, the Sindarin Lord of Lothlórien had come to stay in Rivendell for a while, to oversee the courting and to support his beloved daughter in her choice. It followed naturally that the Sinda spent much of his time in the councils of Elrond.

They would want intelligence on the movements of the orcs. They would debate for hours on the ventures of the orcs towards the Greenwood. Riders would be despatched to the son of Oropher and a patrol would be sent out to the northern vales of the Ettenmoors, he suspected. If the orcs were venturing east from Gundabad, they could as easily be venturing west, into Arnor.

Perhaps Eldacar, son of Valandil, would lead the patrol himself, Glorfindel mused. He had trained the youth himself during the prince's fostering in Imladris. At thirty years of age, Eldacar was a worthy and noble swordsman and strategist, a natural born leader with a humble and gentle heart, though with a fierceness in battle that frightened his enemies. He was a future king to be reckoned with.

If he asked Elrond, then perhaps he could ride out with a company of Elves to aid the son of the King on this mission, Glorfindel calculated. He longed to see his former charge again, and with Celeborn in the house to lead the defense of the Valley, Elrond could easily give his Chief of Defenses leave for another mission beyond the borders, he mulled.

Giving himself a mental shake, Glorfindel guided his stallion up the steeply climbing path into the mountains.

It was time to go home…

**TBC**

Translations:

_Rhimdath – Rushdown. A tributary of the Anduin__, flowing down from the Misty Mountains about 60 miles north of the Carrock and some 60 miles south of the river Langwell. Its source is roughly opposite the source of the river Hoarwell, on the other side of the Misty Mountains._

_Hithaeglir – Misty Mountains_

_Ered Mithrin – Grey Mountains_

_elleth – elf-maiden_

_Anor – Sindarin name of the sun_

_eirien – daisy_

_peredhel – half-elf_


End file.
